


Routine Maintenance

by darkavengerz (darkavenger)



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-09
Updated: 2014-09-09
Packaged: 2018-02-16 17:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2278326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenger/pseuds/darkavengerz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Simmons is having some mechanical trouble. Grif and Sarge fix things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Routine Maintenance

**Author's Note:**

> This is all Canam77's fault.

“Grif! Get over here!”

Rolling his eyes, Grif slowly turns to face the red-armoured sergeant. “What do you want, sir?” he asks, tacking the sir onto the end of his question with a touch of lazy insolence.

“I told you!” Sarge barks sharply, standing in the archway that leads into Red base, “I want you to get over here! Pronto!”

“Fine,” Grif mutters resentfully, and moves over to where Sarge is waiting none too patiently, dragging his feet as he goes. “Whatever this is, couldn’t you get Simmons to help you with it?”

“If only,” Sarge says, shaking his head. “Believe me, if I could, I would. Asking you for help is as strange and loathsome for me as it is for you.”

“Oh, I doubt that,”Grif assures him. “What is it you need help with then?”

“I’m doing a little maintenance work, and I could use a spare pair of hands,” Sarge says briskly, turning on his heel and starting to walk into the Red base. “I figure even you can manage that.”

“Maintenance work?” Grif’s voice lilts up in surprise. “Like, mechanical stuff?” He hurries after the rapidly disappearing sergeant, “And you’re asking me for help? Seriously, I’m telling you. Ask Simmons.  Fixing things with you is like the stuff his dreams are made of.”

“And I’m telling you, no can do, Private!” Sarge turns sharply round a corner and stops in front of the door which leads to the ‘medical bay’, although in Grif’s opinion that’s a rather too optimistic word for what goes on in that room.

“The medical bay?” he asks, surprised and a tad alarmed. “What are we doing here? Is Simmons hurt?” He carefully tries to keep any concern he might feel for his fellow soldier out of his voice.

“Hurt?” Sarge seems surprised at his leap in logic “Nope. Like I said, just a bit of maintenance work, nothing to be worried about, Private.”

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Grif splutters defensively as Sarge pushes the door open. “I’m just confused.”

The door swings up, and Simmons looks round from where he’s sat on the edge of the medical table over in the corner. He’s out of his armour, stripped down to nothing but his boxers, which means Grif gets a good clear view of _the ohshitnotyou_ expression that crosses his face when he spots Grif behind Sarge. “What’s _he_ doing here?” Simmons sounds like he has a bigger stick up his ass than he normally does.

“Assisting me with you,” Sarge says briskly, moving to a cabinet to retrieve what looks like a toolbox.

Simmons’ eyes track Sarge’s movements, and Grif doesn’t miss the scared way his fingers curl into the padding underneath him on the table. Grif wonders what exactly routine maintenance work entails. “But did it have to be him?” Simmons says, and there’s a definite whining edge to his voice. Grif would be insulted if he hadn’t asked the same thing. “Couldn’t Lopez have helped? Or Donut?”

“You really want Donut in here helping?” Sarge asks, setting down the toolbox with a heavy clink on the table beside Simmons.

“No,” Simmons admits, grudgingly. “But Lopez –“

“- has his own tasks to attend to,” Sarge says, “Now quit yer bitching, soldier.”

Simmons’ shoulders slump, but he says obediently, like a good little soldier, “Sorry sir. Understood sir.”

“That’s right,” Sarge says, rummaging through the toolbox, before grunting in satisfaction and selecting a screwdriver which he places with precision on the table.  “Besides,” he adds, and his voice seems a fraction softer than normal, “I thought maybe you’d like the company.”

“I don’t know what would give you that idea,” Simmons grumbles, flinching slightly as Sarge retrieves something else from the toolbox.

“Is that a soldering iron?” Grif asks, disbelieving.

Simmons turns away, face suddenly pale, his chest fluttering up and down with short, shallow breaths. Sarge doesn’t answer, just lays the tool to one side, then lifts his hands to his helmet.

“Uh,” Grif tries to edge surreptitiously towards the door. “Okay, well, it looks like you guys have it under control actually, so I’m just going to –“

“Get over here,” Sarge orders without looking round as he removes his helmet and moves onto removing his gloves, “or I’ll be performing some field surgery on your face with the help of my trusty shotgun.”

“Fine,” Grif grumbles. He swallows, throat suddenly dry and moves unwillingly over to the table and Simmons.  “So what do we do?”

“We don’t do anything,” Sarge says gruffly, attention fixed on Simmons, who for once doesn’t seem happy about this. “You wait there until I tell you to hand me something or hold something.”

“Fine.” Grif lets out a long-suffering sigh, and prepares to be thoroughly bored.

“And keep that smart mouth of your’s shut!”

“Yeah,” Simmons mutters, almost under his breath. “Last thing I need is you to somehow screw things up and make everything worse.” It’s the first thing he’s said directly to Grif, and it somehow restores some sense of normalcy.

“You could try a little gratitude,” Grif retorts, falling into the familiar and comforting routine of their bickering. “It’s not like I don’t have better things I could be doing right now than standing around watching Sarge patch up your pasty ass.”

“Oh, like what exactly?” Simmons counters, voice raising argumentatively, his cheeks flushing with colour at the confrontation. It’s a better look for him than pale and shaken, Grif thinks. “Sleeping and eating? Gosh, I’m sorry, is this interrupting your busy schedule of doing fuck all?”

“Actually –“ Grif begins.

“Will you two both shut the hell up?” Sarge cuts them off, glaring with impressive ferocity.

“Sorry, sir,” Simmons says, ducking his head meekly.

“Yeah, yeah,” Grif waves a hand wearily and takes a seat on the edge of the table. “Shutting up.”

He makes good on his word and watches quietly as Sarge goes to work. To start, the older man looks Simmons over with a dispassionate eye, gaze lingering on the metal plates that coat the left half of the soldier’s upper body. “Lift yer arm,” he grunts.

Obediently, Simmons lefts his arm and twists to give Sarge better access to his side. With a gentleness Grif wouldn’t have expected from the old wardog, Sarge runs his hand over the metal, examining closely the parts where it melds into Simmons’ flesh.  His fingers brush against Simmons’ skin, and Grif doesn’t miss the shiver that runs through Simmons at the contact, even if Sarge is oblivious. _Awkward_ , he singsongs silently in his head, torn between disgust and amusement at his teammate’s obvious crush.

“Is it hurting you?” Sarge asks, bending so he’s level with Simmons’ torso. “The weight of it looks like it’s dragging your right side down a little.”

“It’s not so bad,” Simmons says, giving a lopsided shrug. The two of them ignore Grif as they mutually examine the joins between metal and flesh.

“Hm.” Sarge lets out a long sigh, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. “The scarring’s not as bad as I’d expected.” He grumbles, and continues to prod around at the scarring around the metal, seemingly heedless of the body to which its joined. Grif watches as the flush on Simmons’ cheeks spreads down his chest, the way Simmons blinks down at the top of Sarge’s head and his fingers tighten on the edge of the table. “Right, well, let’s get a look at your insides,” Sarge says briskly, stepping back and rubbing his hands together with a look of anticipation.

“What?” Grif splutters, nearly toppling off the table. “You’re opening him up?!”

Simmons shoots him a scornful look, “What did you think we were doing here, dumb-ass?”

Grif, for once, doesn’t have a come-back. He’d refuse to admit it, but it’s anxiety that he feels curl in his stomach as he watches Sarge pick up the screwdriver and lean down closer to Simmon’s body, one hand settling on Simmons’ shoulder for balance as he starts to fiddle with the small screws Grif realises are holding down a metal panel, fitted so seamlessly into the rest of the metal that he’d failed to notice it was there until this point. “Oh boy.” Grif takes a deep breath, suddenly wishing he hadn’t had all those packets of Cheetos before this.

“If you’re going to throw-up, aim away from me,” Simmons says, shooting him a glare.

“What’s the matter with Grif now? Besides the usual,” Sarge asks, not looking up. He sticks a hand in Grif’s general direction. “Here. Take these, and for the love of God, don’t lose them.”

“Uh,” Grif swallows down his nausea and take the handful of screws. “Okay. Where should I put these?”

“There’s some boxes in the toolbox,” Sarge says, distractedly as he uses the flat tip of the screwdriver to lever the panel off. The flush has faded from Simmons’ face, like it was never there at all, and he’s back to looking sickly-pale.

“Right!” Grif says, turning away with relief. He fumbles one-handed through the toolbox until he finds a suitable plastic container to dump the screws in, then turns back with a morbid curiosity to Simmons and Sarge.  “Ugh.” He immediately regrets that life choice.  Sarge is hands deep inside Simmons. Thankfully, most of what he’s actually doing is obscured from Grif’s line of sight, but from the look on Simmon’s face, it isn’t pleasant. _Well._ Grif assumes that’s what the look on his team mate’s face is, that pain is the reason for his sped-up breathing, for the way he’s biting at his lower lip, hands holding onto the table’s edge with such force Grif’s surprised it isn’t breaking.

“Ah!” Simmons’s head jerks back as Sarge does something unseen, and Grif gets a good look at his expression, the way his pupils are blown, dark with pain _. Yeah_ , Grif tells himself. Pain. That’s what it is.

“Nearly done,” Sarge says absently, reaching up with one free hand to stroke Simmons’ shivering back, with the same kind of absent affection he displays when cleaning his shotgun or working on the Jeep. Grif pretends not to notice the way Simmons leans into the touch, the low whine that leaves his throat. “Looks like you have a couple of wires loose, not that that comes as a surprise,” Sarge chuckles at his own joke, then jerks his head at Grif. “Get me the soldering iron.”

Grif slips off the table, and does so wordlessly. It goes against his grain to follow an order without complaining, but he figures the more compliant he is, the quicker this whole thing can be over, and he can get back to pretending this never happened.

“Oh god,” Simmons says, eyes wide as he looks at the soldering iron.

“Sorry ‘bout this,” Sarge says to Simmons. He turns to Grif. “Hold onto him. Can’t have him flailing about while I’m doing this.”

“On it,” Grif says, moving round to Simmons other side. He’s saved the difficulty of figuring out how, exactly, he needs to hold Simmons down by Simmons turning to press himself against him immediately, forehead buried against Grif’s shoulder, seemingly uncaring of the fact Grif hadn’t bothered to discard any of his armour earlier. His fingers hook into the crevices of Grif’s chestplate, breath coming in ragged gasps of what is definitely pain now, no question about it.

Grif’s at a loss, unable to process this. He’s not used to seeing a team mate in pain, at least not _serious_ pain. Unsure what else to do, what else he can do, he wraps an armoured arm around Simmons’ upper back and holds him steady as Sarge gets to work.

The time it takes for Sarge to do whatever he’s doing passes in a tense couple of minutes.

“If you get snot on my armour, I’m going to be pissed,” Grif jokes weakly, rubbing Simmons’ back soothingly.

“Shut up,” Simmons says, voice muffled against Grif’s chest. “It’s not like that armour hasn’t had more disgusting fluids splattered over it.”

Grif snorts at that, amused. “Dude, I do _not_ want to know what kind of freaky stuff you get up to in your armour.”

“I meant blood,” Simmons retorts, voice still muffled. “Dumb-ass.” The quiet addition makes a smile break out across Grif’s face, and he’s glad again for his helmet.  Simmons insulting him shouldn’t make him feel like everything’s going to be okay, it really shouldn’t. “Ah!” Simmons shudders.

Grif’s arm tightens instinctively around Simmons’ back, and he glances worriedly over his shoulders at Sarge, who is knelt on the floor beside him.

“There we are,” the sergeant says, sitting back and admiring his handiwork. “Good as new Simmons! Scratch that, better than new! New and improved! Now all that’s left is to put the cover back on and you’ll be ready for duty!”

“Thank you, sir,” Simmons says weakly, pulling away from Grif to sit up.

“What?” Grif asks, indignant on Simmons’ behalf. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re not giving him a break, after this?” He gestures expansively at Simmons, who hastily scrubs a hand over his face as if wiping away the tear tracks will erase the last five minutes Grif has had to spend listening to his pained breathing. “I know you can be sadistic, and Simmons is masochistic beyond my comprehension, but that’s taking things too far.”

“Having a work ethic isn’t the same as being a masochist, lazy-ass,” Simmons mutters defensively, and Grif rolls his eyes because it figures that Simmons would do this, deflect from the real issue here. 

“That’s enough back-chat from you,” Sarge agrees. “Now, shut your trap and give me those screws.”

Angrily, Grif complies. “Don’t know why I bother trying to help,” he mutters, sitting back next to Simmons, who huffs and avoids eye-contact. He’s still too weak and shaky to hit though, so Grif settles for pressing his shoulder against Simmons in support.

Apparently, Sarge is capable of seeing sense occasionally, because once he’s finished screwing closed the panel, he announces that Simmons can have the rest of the afternoon off.

“Oh, but -” Simmons begins to protest.

“No buts, soldier! That’s an order.” Sarge replaces the tools in the toolbox, clearly not willing to argue.

“You heard him,” Grif says to Simmons. “Lucky asshole. I wish he’d give me that kind of order.”

“Heh,” Sarge snorts, sounding amused. “If you want to join Simmons in his bed, be my guest.”

“What?” Grif’s jaw drops, but before he can say anything else, Simmons tries to stand, his legs immediately crumpling beneath him. “Whoa!” Grif reaches out, too late.

“Steady there, boy.” Sarge steps forward and catches him before he can hit the ground, holding him up easily. He doesn’t seem too surprised by Simmon’s post-maintenance weakness, or upset by the way Simmons flops against him, letting the older man take his weight. “Might actually be a not-bad idea if Grif bunks with you while you recover. That way, if you need anything, you can make him do it! It’s the perfect plan!”

“I hate you,” Grif says, without feeling.

“C’mon,” Sarge says cheerily, apparently satisfied that this course of action results in inconveniencing Grif somehow, “let’s get you to bed.”

“Okay,” Simmons agrees, dutifully. There’s a pause. He doesn’t move from where he’s slumped against Sarge’s side. “My legs don’t seem to work.”

Sarge frowns, brows drawn as he considers this dilemma. “See. This is what happens when you rely on puny human parts. They’re always breaking down!”

“Oh yeah,” Grif says snidely, “because the mechanical parts never have problems.”

Sarge shoots Grif a half-hearted glare, then sighs and shifts his grip on Simmons. “Fine. Come on, Private, let’s get you to bed.” He bends easily, and lifts Simmons over his shoulder, then makes for the door.

“Oh man,” Grif shakes his head before following. “I so hope the Blues never find out about this.”

He follows the others to Simmons’ room, where Sarge dumps Simmons on his unsurprisingly neatly made bed. “There you are,” Sarge says, nodding with apparent satisfaction. “Alright. Grif, you stay in here and keep an eye on him. I’ll be out front if you need me.” He turns to leave.

“Wait,” Simmons protests, levering himself up.

“What is it, Private?” Sarge asks, turning impatiently.

“…” Simmons suddenly seems very interested in his pillow. He mutters something, too quiet to catch.

“What’s that? You’re going to have to speak up. Hearing ain’t been right since Donut accidentally set off that grenade on my left side.”

“I-was-thinking-you-could-stay-with-me?” Simmons says, a little louder, face still flushed.

Grif doesn’t bother to try and stop himself laughing.

“You can shut up,” Simmons says, glaring at him balefully.

“What?” Sarge says, in brusque confusion. “Why would you need me to stay? I told you, Grif’ll stay with you! He has to do whatever you say!”

That wipes the smile off of Grif’s face.

“I know,” Simmons says quietly, still not making eye-contact. “But I was thinking maybe you could both stay?” His voice cracks hopefully on the request.

“Absolutely not –“

“Hell no –“

Grif and Sarge speak in unison, then glance, confused as they find themselves in agreement.

Simmons doesn’t say anything, but the disappointed way his face falls is enough.

 _This is why we should always wear armour_ , Grif thinks. “Fine,” he acqueises grudgingly. “If it makes you feel better.”

“So long as Grif stays on his side of the bed,” Sarge insists.

Simmons beams.


End file.
